


)(IC: Land a new recruit.

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bad Ending, F/M, Fight Sex, Pre-Alpha Session, Xeno, villains win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 07:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11436066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: You toss your fork aside—one of your drones catches it before it can hit the floor—and saunter over there to stand over your little prize. "You got perchtential, buoy," you tell him. "So I ain't aboat to krill you just yet. But you betta make it worth my whale."





	)(IC: Land a new recruit.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cephalopod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephalopod/gifts).



You been in the planet-conquering business a hella long time by now. Ain't a whole lot that still catches your attention for long, honestly, which is more of a drag than it sounds like. So you take your entertainment where you can get it.

Like Earth. Where there are all of two survivors of the race that resisted you, and they're only survivors because you've let them live. They seem to think it's because they've been strong and clever enough to resist your drones, but really you just don't have much use for wigglers. Wigglers are clumsy and pathetic and it's terminally boring. (There's a reason you outsourced all larva-raising to a planet you don't ever have to set frond on anymore, right?)

They're not such wigglers anymore, though, and that means it's time to see what they can do. You've sent out actual battle parties this time instead of just friendly scouting patrols. You're about to have _guests_.

The first drones to make it back to your ship are the ones you sent after the male. Dirk. They drag him into your throne room and push him down on his knees, and you can feel how bad he's trying to not react to you—all stone-faced and shit, but you can hear the desperate escape plans getting formed and trashed in his little mammal thinkpan and it's _delicious_. His clothes are torn up from resisting your invitation, there's a purple bruise high up on one cheek, and he's got that nasty red blood trickling down from his nose.

"An audience with Fish Hitler herself, huh?" he says, and if you didn't know better you'd be impressed at that bravado tone. "To what do I owe the honor?" Dang, but you can see his Ancestor in him, that smug asshole who gave you so much shit when you first came to this little trash planet. That's gonna make this so much better.

"Give the buoy his little fangpick," you say. You get up from your throne and snag your fork in one claw. "We're gonna dance."

"Seriously?" he says, but he takes his dumb sword when the drone holds it out to him. "You're really going to do this supervillain bullshit?"

"Ain't nebber been a villain more super than me," you point out, and you whip your fork around in a wide arc toward his face.

He's pretty fast, gets out of the way before you can rip open his soft mammal skin. Good. Maybe he won't bore you too soon.

He ducks in low and tries to skewer you, but you're pretty fast yourself, and you drag a claw across his cheek as you get out of his way. You didn't even do it hard enough to make him bleed more, but he's still baring his silly dull teeth at you as you face him again.

His Ancestor looked _just_ like that when he killed your toy Presidents. You hope he's watching this from a dream bubble somewhere.

"I like that conchfidence," you say. You lunge forward and Dirk jumps back, so your fork catches his shirt instead of his belly. The fabric tears straight up the middle as he wrenches away from you. "Little moray training, little moray _ruthlessness_ , I could sea you being useful."

"I'm plenty ruthless," he says, shrugging out of the tatters of his shirt. "And I have no interest in being useful to _you_."

You show him all your fangs. "I don't care if you're interested or naut."

His shoulders hitch up tense like he might have figured out just how many ways you mean that, and he launches himself at you again. You move to block and he flips his blade around, past your guard, point angled in at gill-level—and you slide just out of the way, letting him skim past you harmlessly. You palm his glutes as he goes past, just for the fuck of it. They're nice.

His cheeks are turning pink when he spins around to face you again, but he's doing his damn best to keep his voice level when he goes, "I'm flattered that you've noticed my irresistible charm, but you're really not my type."

"You'll change your mind eventually," you say. They usually do, once they really get how few choices they have.

His mouth hardens into a determined line and he tries for a low crippling strike. It's a good move, fast, and you bet it'd work on most people, even a good number of trolls. But it means he ain't figured out this is a shell game, and all the shells are in your hands.

Fuck it. You grab hold of him with psionics and slam him down on the floor. He makes a little angry noise and tries to struggle, but nah, you're not having any of that. You got a point to make here. And you wanna have a good time.

You toss your fork aside—one of your drones catches it before it can hit the floor—and saunter over there to stand over your little prize. "You got perchtential, buoy," you tell him. "So I ain't aboat to krill you just yet. But you betta make it worth my whale."

"Fuck you," he gets out through clenched teeth, still feisty when you got him flat on his back. Yeah, this was a good time to collect your new subjects.

You straddle him and drop down to your knees, sitting on his chest. When you pluck off his sunglasses and toss them aside, your drones don't bother to dive for those. His eyes are bright orange, like he's halfway to murder mode, except that human eyes don't change color so they must just do that all the time. He's still trying not to let you see him make an expression.

"You ain't dumb," you say. "You know where we goin' from here." You let your control of his head go and he shakes it _no_ , like somehow he still thinks you're asking.

Your bodysuit unseals easy at the touch of a claw, and you open it up along the crotch seam now. Your bulge is a little slick, a little plumped up, but that's for later. You snarl your claws in Dirk's hair and rock forward, bringing your nook down over his face.

"Every second you're not licking my nook is another second I'm making plans what to do with your little gillfrond," you say.

It's the right angle to take. You can feel that instantly, how all that mad gets shoved down the back of his thinkpan underneath waves of what-I-gotta-do bullshit. He still hates this and you but now he's got an argument for cooperating, and that's his hot mammal tongue tracing a path through the folds of your seedflap.

Ain't like he's good at it. You know he's never done this before, never pailed with anyone unless he built some really freak-ass features into those robots of his. But you've had the best courtesans the Alternian Empire ever produced, so there really wasn't any chance he'd impress you with his skills. The novelty's what you're here for. That and the lesson he needs to learn.

So he licks you, this weird mix of grudging and desperate, and you grind down on him to make sure at least _some_ of that friction is hitting good spots. He makes muffled wet sounds like he can't get enough air and you don't let him go, don't let him struggle. This planet's yours and its last survivors are gonna get that through their pans, gonna be your new soldiers, whether or not they got the sense to know what an honor that is.

You picture his Ancestor watching from a bubble for this, too, and that makes it a hell of a lot better. You ride Dirk's mouth and picture that in detail: Dave motherfucking Strider watching impotently while the Descendant he put all his faith in eats you out, neither one of them able to fight you now.

That's what makes you come, that hot nasty _so there_ satisfaction, and Dirk coughs and sputters under you helplessly as you ride out the waves of shivering heat.

You sit back, resting your glutes against his chest, looking down so you can get an eyeful of him wet with fuchsia. "Niiiiice."

He turns his head to the side and spits, like he could get the taste of you out of his mouth. "I beg to differ."

"Denied," you say. "I own this entire galaxy, buoy, and ain't no-one in it gives a flying fish what you want. You wanna change that, you betta troll up an learn how to take." He looks mad. Good.

You get up off him, seal up your bodysuit again, and then let go the psionics that were holding him down. He climbs to his feet and you expect him to go for you again right away, but instead he picks up the rags of his shirt and wipes his face clean. Kind of a shame. You like him in your color.

"Next round," you say. "Let's sea how you do in unarmed combat."

"You're acting like this is some kind of fucked up job interview," he says.

Nice to know he can put the pieces together eventually. You throw a punch. He dodges and throws one of his own. You don't bother to dodge, just tense so when he connects—right in your middle, about level with the bottom of your gills—you're braced for it and it gets him nowhere. You backhand him, just to be rude, and he staggers, his head snapping back.

Oh, that's made him start bleeding again, nice.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand and doesn't attack you again. The jangle of his thoughts is pretty bad right now, loud and conflicting. "Look, this is trite as shit, but I'm beyond caring about that right now," he says. "Do whatever you want to me, just leave Roxy alone."

"Why?" you ask. "You got nofin to bargain with."

After that he tries to kill you like he really _wants_ it, not just like he knows it's important shit that needs to be done. It don't make him better at it exactly, but it gives him a lot of passion you can appreciate. He throws punches in quick combos, steps into kicks with a lot of force behind them, keeps moving steadily even when his breath comes quick and harsh and loud. You might actually have some bruises. He definitely does, purple splotches rising up on his thorax in the shape of your rings.

And he's being real careful to stay out of close range as much as he can, like he knows he can't take you on straight-up. He's right. He just also can't take you on like this, not with the skills he has right now.

You go on the offensive, pressing him back with one strike after another until his back's to the wall and he's got nowhere to go but through you. Bless his little pump biscuit, he tries.

You catch his arm and throw him over your shoulder, dropping him with a meaty thud to the floor. He rolls onto his stomach and you're on top of him before he can push himself up, scruffing him and holding him down with your claws digging into soft flesh. With your other hand you reach down and shred his pants, fabric ripping with loud, satisfying sounds. 

"No," he says, fighting your grip, trying to get the leverage to push himself up off the ground, "no, no."

It's kinda cute, how he thinks he has a shot at fighting you off. You might say so as you kneel on one of his calves to make it harder for him to kick. He doesn't even waste breath sassing you back, he's so busy struggling. Nice priorities, good sense of what really matters. This is some prime raw material.

You get your bodysuit unsealed again, and this time your bulge is getting interested, between the way he tries to fight you and the way he smells, all blood and fear and fury. 

He don't have a nook, just mammal bulge and globes and then the weird smooth seam leading back to his waste chute. But that's fine. Still got one hole you can put to use. Frankly, you might have pailed his chute even if he had a nook. Maybe you'll do the girl like that, let him watch, see if you can get both of them to hate you enough to really make good warrior material.

You hold him down hard, spreading his glutes with the hand that's not locked around his neck, and when your bulge traces its way up through his crack he makes the _best_ miserable sound. So you push, forcing your way past the resistance of that tight little hole, your bulge squirming in one coil at a time. He pants, trembling under you, sweat covering his whole body.

"Eels good," you tell him, mostly just to make him madder. He's real tight and a little hotter than you actually prefer, but the defiance is something you haven't gotten for real in a damn long time. "How much can you hake, hmm?"

He's trying not to make noise. You reward him by pushing in deeper. There's basically no way he can take your whole bulge but if he's going to be stubborn you're going to see just where the limit is. 

You actually get maybe three-quarters of the way there before he breaks, his defiant silence collapsing in a rush like a flood smashing a dam. "Fuck, you don't have any restraint at all, do you? Trolls don't believe in being gentle for a guy's first time, it's just full speed ahead, monster dick express, like this is the way you've decided to execute the prisoner."

It'd be a decent attempt at flipping mid-pail if you hadn't seen that shit thousands of times before. Dirk's far from the first one to realize how much trouble he's in once he has his pants off with you. "This _is_ me being gentle, guppy," you croon. "Takin' all the mercy I got to keep from splitting you stem to stern."

He shudders hard under you, like he's picking up what you're putting down and he knows that shit is true. "What do you want?" he asks, real quiet like that'll keep you from noticing how bad his voice shakes.

When people ask you that what they really mean is _How do I get you to stop?_ and they never want to hear that the answer is _You don't_ , but it is. Your bulge eels in the hot tight confines of his chute and you think you could get to like the way he feels. Not the first time you've used a conquered alien as a pail and it won't be the last, either.

"Buoy, you know what I want," you say. "Everyfin your little crap planet can cough up for me." You flex, working your bulge in that tight little hole, letting the friction build toward something good. "Everyfin you got." He's gone quiet under you again, but it ain't real surrender. That's a long way off yet. This is just the next step, where he tries to keep his head down and roll with the punches he can't dodge to save his strength. You won't really be getting somewhere until he realizes that the punches he can't dodge are all of them.

But you can handle that being a ways off. You got plenty of time, and you got a nice new toy in the meanwhile. You use him good and hard as you dare—wouldn't want to break him for real, not this fast—while he pants and shivers under you, hands scrabbling at the floor with no claws to even dig in. It's pitiful as hell but you got no pity left in you, not for smart-mouthed aliens, definitely not for the Descendents of losers who defied you.

You fuck your new boy, stretching him out and getting up in him as deep as you can. His breathing is all short and shallow and what you can hear of his thoughts is a jumbled mess, going nowhere at top speed. Feels good. Feels like winning, and you ain't had a new victory in a damn long time. It sneaks up on you, the way the tension builds, like the sea pulling back from the shore, and back, and back—and then rushing in, roaring, a tidal wave that sweeps through your nerves and spills out your bulge and makes Dirk swear and sob and writhe under you like he can't take being pumped so full.

Well, he'll get used to it. You bask for a minute, just letting yourself enjoy the comfortable, floaty satisfaction of trouncing somebody and then pailing him. You're not totally sure if Dirk's going to try to keep fighting you when you let him up. He's freaked out and hurting, sure, but sometimes that just makes an animal want to bite more.

"So, what is this?" he says before you can relax too much. His voice is almost steady again already. "You got some kind of dog knotting thing going on here, and I'm going to have to sit around bloated with spooge until you can figure out how to corral your junk again?"

"Coral my junk, nice," you say, because you can appreciate a good pun opportunity when somebody hands it to you. Your bulge is starting to retract in defiance of Dirk's rude suggestions, and you rock your hips back to encourage it a little.

"Ugh, fuck," he says, squirming as some of your slurry spills free, and of course the squirming just makes it worse.

"Have to train you not to let that spill," you say. That's dumb decadent highblood shit, for trolls who only get to lord it over a few people and have to make a big deal out of it. But you _have_ been pretty bored these last few hundred sweeps. 

You're dredging your memory of assorted violet-blooded douchebags to add some more suggestions to that first one when one of your sentry drones beeps.

"Recruiting party number two has returned," it reports. "Fishion acconchlished."

"Sweet." You pull out of your boy the rest of the way and let him go, standing up and tucking back into your bodysuit. "Bring my gill in to say hi."

Your boy climbs gingerly to his feet, his hands doing this thing like he's trying to convince the remains of his jeans to function. "No," he says, flat and hopeless, "don't. Please don't."

"Shoosh, guppy," you say, grinning with all your fangs as the door hisses open. "This is where the reel good stuff starts."


End file.
